


You Ain't Seen Nothin' Yet

by RexMagenta



Series: A History of Western Philosophy [2]
Category: Bill & Ted (Movies)
Genre: First Kiss, Las Vegas, M/M, Noodle Incidents, Poker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:35:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28961799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RexMagenta/pseuds/RexMagenta
Summary: Billy wants to show Socrates a good time, and where better than Las Vegas in its heyday? But it's easy to get separated in the crowds on the Strip, and Billy never could resist a game of cards...
Relationships: Billy the Kid/Socrates (Bill & Ted)
Series: A History of Western Philosophy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2110908
Kudos: 4





	You Ain't Seen Nothin' Yet

The booth slams down on the edge of a desert, the sparks that play over its surface fusing droplets of glass from the sand. The door slides open and Billy and Socrates step out, surveying the new world. The sky is dark and the air is cool, but up ahead is a dazzling show of coloured lights that makes Socrates raise his hands and cry out in wonder.

"Las Vegas," Billy says, pointing to the lights and the city. Socrates repeats the name and he nods. "Directory said this place is party central. Gambling, and booze," he mimes drinking, "and maybe some dancing girls." He's going to show the old man a good time, just as soon as he gets his hands on enough money to buy his way into a poker game. He shuts up the booth, hoping it will be safe enough all the way out here, and leads the way into the city.

"Las Vegas," Socrates says as they follow the noise and the people to the centre of the city. "Las Vegas!" he shouts, twirling around to take in the lights and the casinos and the billboards.

"That's right, grandpa," says a woman working the street. "You're in Las Vegas. Are you looking to have a good time?"

Billy eyes her up and down. "Maybe later," he says. "We only just got here. Need to find our bearings."

"Don't wait too long, cowboy. Someone else could snap me up in the meantime."

"You got it, ma'am." He touches the brim of his hat to her, making her smile, and ushers Socrates away.

There are people absolutely everywhere, a great, heaving crowd, and Billy is sure it won't be hard to relieve one or two of them of some cash to get him started. The only question is how to do it. He's never been one for the subtle art of pickpocketing, preferring the simplicity of going in all guns blazing. But he doesn't know enough about this place to risk drawing too much attention just yet. Besides, some part of him really wants to impress Socrates on their first trip out, and somehow murder doesn't seem like the way to do that.

Not that it seems like he needs money to impress Socrates. The old man isn't showing any signs of getting tired of the view, and he's attracting all kinds of attention with his cries of, "Las Vegas!" and his tendency to coo over people's outfits while brushing the fabrics with his fingertips. Maybe he can run distraction while Billy lifts a wallet or two.

He needs space to think before he tries anything, so he steers Socrates towards the edge of the crowd with a firm hand on each shoulder. His mouth is right next to Socrates' ear and he mutters encouragements even though he knows they won't be understood.

There's a side street up ahead with much less activity and Billy makes for it. Could be a good spot for a quiet robbery, or just somewhere to make a plan. It's gloomy and drab compared to the bright lights out there, and Socrates immediately tries to go back. Billy puts a hand on his chest to stop him. He can feel the philosopher's heart racing beneath his palm, and for a moment as their eyes meet he forgets what he came down here for.

"Wait," he tells Socrates when he finds his voice. It's a word he's used before, one he's sure Socrates understands now. "We need to get some money. Money?" With his free hand he pulls a handful of coins from his pocket to demonstrate. Back home they'd be enough for a meal and a bed for both of them, but they're unlikely to go far here.

"Ah!" Socrates' eyes light up and he points back out at the crowds.

"No," Billy starts but Socrates grabs his hand and leads him out. His skin is warm and dry where Billy's palm is suddenly sweaty. Heads turn at the sight of two men hand in hand but Socrates is set on some destination and nothing distracts him from dragging Billy along.

They stop outside a shop front. Socrates gestures to the window and says something in a stream of rapid Greek.

The sign above the window says 'Antiques Bought & Sold' and right there in the display is a collection of old coins like the ones Billy is still clutching. Except his look better because they've come the short way through the last hundred years.

"Money," says Socrates carefully.

"Money," Billy agrees, looking at the price tags on some of the coins. Socrates must have been drinking in every detail as they came through because Billy doesn't even recall seeing the shop, much less the coins in the window.

"Wait here." He puts his hands on Socrates' shoulders to hold him still. "Wait. I'll go in and get us some money and then..." He looks around, picks the biggest billboard he can see. "Then maybe we'll see what kind of a show Frank Sinatra puts on."

Telling Socrates again to wait, he enters the shop. Opening the door sets a bell jingling and attracts the attention of the fussy little man behind the counter.

"Howdy," Billy says, tipping his hat. "Got some old coins I'm looking to sell." Part of him balks at the idea that anything he owns could be old enough to be classed as 'antique', but that part is rapidly silenced by the part that's happy for them to be classed as 'valuable'.

He doesn't want to hand over all of his money, so he picks a couple of the best looking coins and puts them down on the counter. "From the 1870s or thereabouts," he says with a smile.

The dealer picks one up and studies it, examining both sides closely with a magnifier. "Are there genuine?" he asks. "I've never seen one in such good condition."

"Yes, sir," says Billy, thinking quickly. "Found them in an old box that hadn't been touched since my great-grandpa passed away. Relics of the Lincoln County war, by all accounts. Don't suppose they had a chance to go through too many pockets before they got put away and forgotten."

"You're got yourself quite a treasure here." The dealer places the coins back on the counter like they're holy objects. "I'll have to consult the guides, of course, but I'm sure we can offer you a good price."

Billy can tell he's lying by the way he's working hard to maintain eye contact, but he doesn't care. He only needs money for one night, and he's getting it in exchange for his pocket change. He'll settle on a price easily enough.

The dealer is still poring over his price guides when there's some kind of commotion out on the street. It sounds like a whole group of young men, hooting and hollering and chanting something. Billy thinks he hears Socrates shouting, but he doesn't dare take his eyes off his coins. With so many people out there, nothing too bad can happen, surely?

"All right," says the dealer, closing up his guides. "You've nothing truly unusual here, I'm afraid, aside from their excellent quality. But I think you'll appreciate the offer regardless." He quotes a number that makes Billy's head spin, accustomed as he is to prices from a century earlier.

As tempted as he is, Billy knows better than to take the first offer he's given. He doesn't want to look desperate for the money, and the man is definitely low-balling him, outrageous as it seems. "I appreciate you have to make a profit," he says carefully, "but that offer is lower than I was hoping. I did some research before I came out here, you know."

"Sadly, the market for these things is rather volatile at the moment. The lower price is a reflection of the level of risk we take on with such acquisitions." Billy just stares at him, cool and level, until he adds, "Perhaps, in your case, and in light of the excellent condition of the pieces, we could go up a little." He names a new figure, not much better than the first, but it'll do.

There's paperwork to be filled out before he can get his hands on the cash. Billy doesn't trust anyone who wants to write down his name and address, but he wants the money and besides, it's not like anyone will find him at the address he gives in New Mexico. He hasn't lived there in a hundred years. There's nearly an issue when the dealer asked for his postcode, whatever that may be, but he eventually accepts Billy's claim that he can't remember it.

As Billy counts through the stack of cash he's given, he's thinking about what he can do with it and how best to show Socrates a good time. Dinner, of course, and maybe some kind of show. Then perhaps he'll teach him to play poker, let everyone get distracted by the funny old man so they don't notice the Ace he's tucked up his sleeve. After that will depend on how far the money stretches, but maybe they can get a couple of rooms to rest and clean up before they blow this joint and go somewhen else.

It's a good plan, and Billy's dreaming it so well he can practically taste the steak he's going to order. There's just one tiny problem, one little thing that throws the whole thing off.

He's outside the shop, but Socrates is nowhere to be seen.

At first he thinks it's just the crowds in his way, that Socrates has tucked himself somewhere out of the way while he's been waiting. Billy expects to catch sight of him at any moment, but the longer he spends looking the more he has to accept that Socrates is gone.

The noise of the crowd disappears under the rushing panic in his ears. His heart is hammering so hard he's sure it must be audible but nobody is paying him any attention. Socrates is gone. They're both alone in Las Vegas, and the philosopher doesn't have any money or even speak English. There's no way this can end well if Billy doesn't find him soon.

He spots a woman touting for business. "Pardon me, ma'am," he says, touching his hat and trying to squash down the lump of anxiety in his chest, "but did you happen to notice an old man waiting around here? I was supposed to be meeting him, but I believe I must have missed him. He'd have been dressed like he was wearing an old bedsheet."

"Costume party, is it?" she asks, looking at his clothes. "Can't say that I saw him, but there was a toga party rolled through here about ten minutes ago. Maybe your friend figured they were a better offer."

It's not much of a lead but it's the best he's got. "Did you happen to see which way they went?"

"Same way all the toga parties go." She points, and Billy looks over at the bright lights of Caesars Palace.

–

"Welcome to Caesars Palace," says a cocktail waitress the instant Billy steps through the doors. She's wearing an outfit that Billy guesses isn't historically accurate and carrying a tray of drinks, all vivid colours that make Billy feel ill just looking at them. "I am your slave." She gives him a smile that almost sells the line.

"Thank you, ma'am," says Billy, waving away the offered drinks, "but I'm not really in the market for a slave right now. I'm looking for a friend of mine. Heard he might have come this way, possibly as part of a toga party?"

"Well sure, we had a party come in a little while ago. They're in a private room right now though, so unless they're expecting you there's nothing you can do but wait and enjoy our excellent facilities in the meantime." She gives him another smile.

He still doesn't know for sure that Socrates is with them, but there's no way he'll convince anyone to let him close enough to check. It's a toga party, not an outlaw party. He could head back out, check the rest of the city, maybe try going back to the booth, but if Socrates is with the party then he could end up missing them coming out. So better to stay put and wait, and if that means playing a little poker to pass the time then so be it.

The waitress points him towards the casino and reminds him to get some chips before joining a game. He tips his hat to her and descends deeper into the complex.

The casino itself is loud and gloomy. Billy is getting used to the garish lights and constant buzz of the city but he still hesitates at the entrance, put off by the rows of people joylessly feeding coins into machines. He wants to play poker, a game of skill with an element of luck that he can manipulate, not whatever this is.

Clutching his tray of chips like a talisman he steps out onto the floor like it might bite him. There have to be card tables somewhere in this mess. He just has to find them before his nerve runs out.

Behind the machines the room opens out and Billy finally finds what he's looking for. There are several tables playing poker and he doesn't have to wait too long before a spot opens up for him to slide into.

He vows before he starts that he won't play with more than the chips he brought to the table. He's going to keep the rest of his money out of the game. It's still reserved for showing Socrates a good time, just as soon as he finds him.

The croupier deals him in with a hand so bad that Billy squints at him, wondering if it was deliberate. He doesn't even try to play it, folding from the off and spending the hand studying the other players at the table. They're nobodies, for the most part, tourists here for the thrill with no real strategy to speak of.

The only one who really catches his attention is the woman sitting almost directly opposite. That's partly because her low neckline and statement necklace are designed to catch attention, cleavage weaponised in the name of distraction. But it's also because her 'oh gosh, isn't this exciting, how do you play this game again?' attitude is such an obvious bluff. The others are all indulging her but Billy's watching the way she looks at the others as they pick up their cards or consider a bet, and he can practically hear the cogs turning in her head. She's a lot better than she's letting on, slumming at a low-stakes table for entertainment. It's foolish, but Billy resolves to do his best to clear her out before he leaves the table.

His next hand is a little more promising, but it just doesn't quite come together like he hoped. He doesn't yet have any cards hidden up his sleeve to help his luck along, and it's hard work playing without them.

When he hands back his cards he takes the opportunity to palm one of the lower value ones. It's a test, really, to see if anybody notices. If they do, he'll claim it was an accident and hand it back. He can't possibly be thinking about cheating, not with the Three of Diamonds. Not when he just handed back the King of Spades.

Nobody says anything, which surprises Billy, but now he's got a card tucked up his sleeve. Not a good card, sure, but as soon as something better comes along he can swap them. He just feels better knowing he's got something there.

Bolstered by his success hiding the card, Billy resolves to try bluffing on his next hand. He can't keep folding forever, and the others shouldn't know his tells just yet. He throws a couple of cautious bets into the ring, testing the water.

"You're not folding this time?" the woman asks him. "Gosh, how exciting! You must have some good cards this time." She's all smiles and fun, but there's a cold glitter in her eyes as she looks at him.

He's all smiles right back at her. "They had to come up for me sooner or later." He holds her gaze just long enough to seem confident without actively challenging her. Just before he looks away, he throws in another small raise, daring her to decide whether to match him. If she calls, she'll probably be able to beat his low pair, but he'll have set up a reputation for going over on a poor hand that will serve him well when he finally gets some decent cards.

"Isn't that just wonderful?" she gushes, but she's still watching him too closely. "I don't think my luck matches yours this time." She folds, and Billy gets a modest stack of chips without ever having to show his cards.

When he picks up his next hand, his first thought is that he's got a good card to swap for the one up his sleeve. But then he looks properly and realises he's holding a Full House. Just like that, with no trickery needed. He's so surprised he nearly drops his cards.

He can't go in by too much, too quickly. He'll scare the table if he does, make them fold and waste his hand winning peanuts. He could win big with this one if he plays it right, lures them into thinking he's bluffing and betting more to try to clear him out. The chips around the table are calling to him, willing him to try to claim them all. They're promising to buy him the best night with Socrates.

"More good luck?" the woman asks as he raises a second time. "The cards must be smiling on you right now."

"It sure seems that way," Billy says, but this time he fidgets under her gaze. He wants her to think he's nervous, so instead of meeting her eyes he looks almost everywhere else.

The woman smiles, and Billy thinks of a mountain lion coming up on her prey. "Let's see if they keep smiling." She adds a raise of her own, and Billy knows he's hooked her. He just has to reel her in nice and slowly.

Billy's just considering how much his next raise should be when there's some kind of disturbance elsewhere in the building. Raised voices and shouts from police somewhere outside the casino. Billy tends to break into hives any time he's too close to law enforcement, but he tells himself they're not here for him and tries to focus on the game. Right up until he hears another voice in the hullabaloo, shouting indignantly in slurred Greek.

If he doesn't leave the table quickly, he'll miss Socrates again. Worse, if he doesn't get there quickly and calm things it could end very badly. He hopes the police here wouldn't shoot an old man in a bedsheet, but he doesn't trust them enough to take the chance.

"Something wrong?" the woman asks. "I'm sure security will handle whatever is going on out there. It needn't disrupt our game."

Billy looks down at his cards. It's a Full House, dammit. He's never had one just dealt to him before, and he probably never will again. He could weep for the lost potential. But there's a man out there who needs him more than Billy needs the win.

"I call." He tosses a chip onto the pile and they both lay down their cards. He nods in resignation as he sees her hand was decent enough that he could probably have taken more from her given time.

The pile of chips is swept over to him and he gets to his feet as he stacks them in his tray. "It's been real good fun," he says, tipping his hat, "but we all know I won't see another hand like that. Gonna quit while I'm ahead."

As he leaves the table he can still hear Socrates shouting. If he hurries, he should be able to catch him and at least see what happens. Cashing in his chips can wait for now.

He's striding towards the exit, trying to figure out exactly where the noise is coming from, when two broad-shouldered men in ill-fitting suits block his way. "Excuse me, gentlemen," he says, but they don't move.

"The boss wishes to see you," one of them says. The pair of them are a solid wall between Billy and where he needs to be.

The shouting is getting more intense. He really doesn't have time for this. "Thank you kindly for the message. I'll be along to see him at my earliest convenience." He tries to push through but they grab hold of an arm each and lift him off the ground, his legs cycling uselessly as they bear him away in the opposite direction.

There's a cry from Socrates and a thump that suggests he's just been tackled, but Billy can't do anything. "Bogus," he mutters, resigning himself to his fate. "I'll find you again somehow."

He can't see where he's going, only where he's been, but he can tell when he's approaching his fate by the way the goons change their stride. They're holding him as roughly as ever, but they walk more respectfully as they near the boss.

The goons put him down inside an office, his boots landing on plush carpet, but he's still facing backwards. He stays like that, staring at the carvings on the door. Billy the Kid doesn't turn around like some cap-in-hand supplicant. He's not afraid of this boss.

"I find your attitude extremely childish," a voice behind him sighs. "Turn him around, please."

The goons forcibly rotate him, moving him so quickly that he stumbles. It's deliberate, he knows, so he puts on his best poker face and clamps down on his annoyance. "Heard you wanted to see me," he says to the rat-faced man behind the desk. He's still clutching his tray of chips in both hands like an offering.

The rat-faced man is all sweet manners, but with an undeniable current of menace below the surface. "I did indeed, Mr-?"

"Bonney" says Billy. It's not his legal name, but it's the one he's been using long enough.

"Mr Bonney." He steeples his neatly manicured fingers, elbows resting on the desk. "We have a problem in the casino. Someone at one of the tables was palming cards, no doubt in order to cheat the house. Perhaps they hoped if they didn't push their luck too far we wouldn't notice this indiscretion. But I can assure you, Mr Bonney, the house always notices."

"Uh..." Billy clears his throat. "What if they didn't actually cheat? What if their winning hand was dealt to them entirely legitimately?"

"I'm afraid that would be immaterial. As soon as the first card was palmed, the intent was there. And we cannot allow such insults to the integrity of this fine establishment."

"You've got no proof," Billy tries, but one of the goons grabs his arm and rolls his sleeve up to reveal the Three of Diamonds. "Well, how did that get there?"

"Please don't insult our intelligence like that," the rat-faced man says. "You were seen taking it. The croupier alerted us the instant you did it. We could have picked you up immediately but we prefer to handle these things quietly if possible, at least until any actual cheating is attempted. As you say, your winning hand was dealt to you legitimately, so why spoil everyone else's evening?"

"I promise never to try anything of the sort in this establishment from this day forward." He means it sincerely. If he ever does fancy trying to swindle them again, he'll use the booth and do it earlier. "Now I've got pressing business elsewhere, so how about we leave it at that? Since you've already admitted my win was legitimate and all."

"I'm afraid it isn't as simple as that." The rat-faced man looks genuinely sad to be delivering the news. "The fact that you attempted to cheat is an insult to the house. We can hardly just let it slide."

Billy sighs and places his tray of chips on the table. "There. We're even. Better than even, since that includes the chips I bought to join the game. Can I go now?" He turns to leave but the goons block his path.

"This isn't just about the money, Mr Bonney. There's the matter of the insult."

"Fine." Billy turns back. "You look like a rodent and these two smell like a horse's rear after a day on the trail. How's that?"

He knew it was rash, but he's never been one to resist his impulses. Even as one of the goons holds his arms behind his back while the other winds up to deliver a beating, he can't say that he regrets it. The fight was inevitable either way.

The first hit is telegraphed so massively that Billy has plenty of time to react. No doubt he's supposed to be tensing up, anticipating the pain, but instead he lets himself go limp and flops forward. His arms slip out of his sleeves, leaving the goon holding his coat, and his head goes into the other one's gut. It's like hitting a brick wall and for a moment Billy is dazed.

He's not survived this long by going down from a single hit. Almost without thinking about it, he staggers away from the two goons, towards the door, buying himself a little space to clear his head and figure out his next move.

The door is calling to him, but his coat is on the floor behind the advancing goons and he's not leaving without it. Not when all his remaining money is still in the pocket.

Feint left, dodge right. Spin around the broad back of a goon and sweep up the coat. He throws it over the head of the other goon and swings himself around, back to the door. Whips the coat off and in the moment of confusion grabs the goon's head and smashes him into the other.

He doesn't waste time. Fast as he is, this isn't a fight he can win. Survival is more important than pride. He's out of the door and sprinting away down the corridor, the goons chasing straight after him.

If he can make it out of the building, he can lose them in the crowds. They'll give up and he can find Socrates, and get the hell out of here. If he can make it out of the building.

The place is like a maze, a warren of identical corridors. Billy isn't sure he remembers the way they brought him, but he runs on instinct, taking turns that feel right. At last, his lungs burning in his chest, he makes it out into the public areas. A second wind powers him up for the final sprint out into the street.

And straight into the waiting arms of the police.

With that, it's over. He's cuffed and manhandled and driven away. Should have expected this but he's never been one for looking ahead. His first thought is that it'll be okay, that they haven't built the jail that can hold Billy the Kid. But a second weasel thought says they hadn't built one a hundred years ago, but maybe they've made advances since then.

They process him back at the station and Billy bites his tongue rather than give them any lip. It's looking like they don't have a lot to charge him with, so if he plays nice he might get away with little more than a night in the cells. And right now a shot at sleeping doesn't seem so bad.

He's looking at the floor when they usher them into a cell so he doesn't see the other occupant until there's a cheerful shout that makes his heart leap.

Socrates, sporting a freshly blackened eye and stinking of cheap booze, is on his feet and stumbling towards him, chattering excitedly. Before Billy can quite process what he's seeing, Socrates is holding his face in both hands and planting a kiss smack on his lips.

"That's enough of that," says the cop in a disgusted tone, pushing Socrates away. "He's been drinking," he says to Billy.

Billy tries to ignore the way his heart is racing. He hopes his face isn't as flushed as it feels. "Where'd you pick this one up?" he asks, trying to sound casual.

"Same place as you." The cop closes the cell door and locks it. "Must be something in the water. Seems he got himself attached to a frat party but couldn't hold his liquor. The others wouldn't say too much about what happened, but several of them can't look at shrimp now without freaking out."

"And you're locking me in here with him?"

"Ain't no shrimp in there." The cop shrugs. "Just holler if he starts to get handsy."

Socrates chatters away for a while, with Billy nodding along, until the booze finally takes him and he drifts off to sleep. Billy covers him with a blanket and then just sits and watches him. He can still feel the traces of the kiss on his lips.

There's a good chance Socrates won't remember any of this in the morning, and it's not like he can ask him about it. Best to blame it on the alcohol and pretend it never happened. Maybe then he'll stop feeling so confused.

Billy settles back and stretches out. He might as well get some sleep. They'll both be out of here in the morning, with luck, off to another time where no one cares who they are. Maybe then they can finally have that fancy dinner.


End file.
